Strikeouts and Static

The scoreboard glared: 0-2, bottom of the seventh. My phone vibrated in my back pocket—probably Mia cancelling again. Third date, same excuse.

"You good, dude?" Marcus asked, tapping his cleat in the on-deck circle. He'd been my best friend since kindergarten, back when we both thought eating spinach meant turning into Popeye.

"Yeah. Just got this." I pulled out my iPhone. The message wasn't from Mia. It was from my mom: *Your father and I are separating.*

The words hit like a fastball to the chest. I stared at the screen until the home plate umpire yelled, "Batter up!"

I stepped into the box, bat trembling. Their pitcher glared down from the mound, throwing heat that had struck out the last three batters. First pitch: high and tight, I froze. Strike one.

"Focus!" Coach screamed from the dugout.

Second pitch: a curveball that dropped low. I swung at air. Strike two.

The crowd went quiet. My phone buzzed again. Marcus caught my eye from first base—he knew something was wrong. He gave me a small nod, the kind that said *I've got your back*.

Third pitch came like lightning, bright and fast. I didn't think. I just swung.

*CRACK.*

The ball soared over the left fielder's head. I took off, legs pumping, dodging the spinach leaf someone had thrown onto the baseline from the concessions stand. Third base coach waved me home.

I slid across the plate, dirt flying everywhere. Safe.

The team rushed me, helmets bumping, hands slapping my back. For a moment, everything blurred together—my parents, Mia, the game, the way life kept throwing curves I couldn't see coming.

Marcus found me in the celebration. "You okay?" he asked quietly.

I looked at my iPhone, then at him. "Not really," I said. "but I will be."

Sometimes you strike out. Sometimes you hit it out of the park. Either way, you keep swinging.